The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end; But who can with fate and quart bumpers contend? Though fate said,—a hero should perish in light; So uprose bright Phoebus-and down fell the knight. Next uprose our bard, like a prophet in drink :"Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall sink! "But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme, "Come-one bottle more and have at the su"blime! Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with "BRUCE, "Shall heroes and patriots ever produce : "So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay; "The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day!" 2 SECOND EPISTLE ΤΟ DAVIE, A BROTHER POET*. AULD NIBOR, I'm three times, doubly, o'er For your auld-farrent, frien'ly letter; Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter, Ye speak sae fair, For my puir, silly, rhymin' clatter Some less maun sair. This is prefixed to the Poems of David Sillar, published at Kilmarnock, 1789, and has not before appeared in our author's printed poems. Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle; O' warly cares, Till bairns' bairns kindly cudle Your auld, gray hairs. But DAVIE, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit; An' gif it's sae, ye sud be licket Until ye fyke; Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faikit, Be hain't wha like. For me, I'm on Parnassus brink, Rivan the words tae gar them clink; Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't wi' drink, Wi' jads or masons; An' whyles, but ay owre late, I think Braw sober lessons. Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, Except it be some idle plan O' rhymin clink, The devil-haet, that I sud ban, They ever think. Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin', But just the pouchie put the nieve in, An' while ought's there, Then, hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrivin', An' fash nae mair. Leeze me on rhyme! it's ay a treasure, The muse, poor hizzie! Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure, She's seldom lazy. Haud tae the muse, my dainty Davie : Tho' e'er sae puir, Na, even tho' limpan wi' the spavie Frae door tae door. |